themeadowsentinel

[themeadowsentinel]

Mera

She's the head researcher of Brilliant Minds

[themeadowsentinel]

The Saltsong Jester

Ah, the ocean! Vast, untamed, and home to one of the most enigmatic caretakers: the Saltsong Jester, a creature as whimsical as it is wise. Part fish, part otter and a dash of fox–a begiling guardian that drifts through the currents with a graceful and playful nature. 

Observe as it twists through towering kelp forest, body ribboning between the fronds. Fur glistening like an oils slick, scales shifting between colors with every flick of its tail. Eyes as silent as a sharks and as knowing as a storm, miss nothing. A stranded sailor gasping for air? A drowning child sinking beneath the waves. The Jester is there in a heartbeat nudging them upwards with its snout, offering breath stolen from the wind itself.

But not all who enter the sea are meant to return to land. 

For those beyond saving, the Jester sings a soft song. It guides them deeper, where the water grows cold, quiet and still. A place where creatures pulse with the light of drowned stars. “Look,” it seems to whisper, “Isn’t it beautiful here?” And then, the terror floats away, lungs forget their burning. The dark becomes a cradle.

By day, it lounges in a kelp forest, gnawing on the rubbery stems. But cross the water with cruelty, and its teeth sharpen. The Jester’s laughter fades into some cold, something dangerous. The hiss of waves against rocks, the groan of a ship’s hull splitting.

Siren and savior, comedian and calamity.

And if you ever hear something giggling beneath the waves?

Don’t ask if it’s laughing with you….

[themeadowsentinel]

💿THICKETBOUND WANDERER PLAYLIST 🎶

[themeadowsentinel]

Sentinel Q&A (Part 1)

Sentinels: A Covenant of Teeth and Tenderness

The often unseen stitches that hold the world’s Fabric– Guardians who wear their scars like armor in a world ravaged by war and plague. Wielding the hidden knife of kindness.

What are Sentinels?

Harbingers of Wild Mercy– Not beast, but not quiet fae and far far from human. They enforce their own laws, not those of man. They protect the helpless, punish the cruel and keep the balance above all else. 

The Balance between Broken & Unbroken– each Sentinel has known the sting of chains, Whether literal or metaphorical. They have gnawed through the chains, or even their own flesh. The pain lingers, not as weakness but a whetstone for their wrath

Characters of a long-forgotten fable– Too strange and wondrous for the mortal, waking world. But too feral to be Divine. They exist, as always, in a space between. A flitting shadow, an eerie yet comfortable presence just behind your shoulder. 

Loners Who Do Not Know Loneliness- Sentinels wander separately and mainly stick to themselves, but they are a pack. They come together under the moonlight, sharing news, good-tidings, and tragedies. 

Sentinels’ bonds to each other is silent but mostly unbreakable.

What Do Sentinels Do?

Shepherd the lost– They notice the child lost in their domains, the wounded animals or the lost wandering soul. They guide with gentle nudges, show hidden paths to weary hearts. If the path is too bleak or thorny, they offer a different type of survival– rebirth into the wilds.

Hunters of the Hunters— Predators who prey on the weak, suddenly find that the forest, the buildings, the grass, the waves, are suddenly closer. They gasps for air, then feel the sting of their teeth. 

They Remember the Wonder of the Old World- Those who still believe in magic might glimpse them– hear a laugh like a rusted hinge, see a twinkling green eye. The disbelievers, they hear the wind, the rustle of a leaf, and nothing more. 

What Do Sentinels Tracks/Trails Look like?

Pawprints that seem to glow in the moonlight, a trail of feathers and foxfire, breadcrumbs of bones and blossoms. Follow them deeper, or follow them out? That choice remains with you. 

Manifestations of Sentinels

Types of Manifestations:

The Wound-Tender

Their body radiates the warmth of a stone baking in the sun, warm and comforting. Wounds stitch themselves shut under their gentle touch. The Dying hear one last comforting hum of a mother’s sweet lullaby.

Signs of a Wonder-Tender

Bloomed flowers in strange, but somehow familiar footprints.

A voice, that is rough, but never rasps,

Predators lower their heads in passing  

The Silent Judge

Their otherworldly presence silences the screams of the Guilty. Shadows clothe them and their eyes reflect the inner truths

They leave no blood– just a faint smell of thunderstorms

The earth seems to still as the render their justice

The ravens follow, but do not feed on the carcass bloated with evil and soul-rot

The Pathfinder

Their pelt glows faintly, not the vibrant light of a fire. But the quiet glow of moss lit by the moon. For lost children they take the shape of something familiar and comforting– A stag, an old family dog, the ghost of your grandmother…

Signs of a Pathfinder

Their prints never lead in a circle

Storm clouds part where they walk

If you sleep near their den, you dream of the way home

The Stormbringer

Thunder gathers in their chest, lightning flickers in their maw. Their rage is great, but precise. It only burns what needs to be burnt. 

Signs of a Stormbringer

Rain follows wherever they go

They howl with the ferocity of the Thunder

Fire juts off course, the spare the chosen

The Hollow-Blessed

Their touches unravels pain, hidden and visible. Those to broken to remain human feel their spirits lighten, bones rearrange and reshape. A child becomes a fox, a grieving father becomes a willow. No one mourns these changes. 

Signs of The Hollow-Blessed

When you smell the scent of wet soil and new leaves

Their shadows have antlers, or maybe wings, the twist of a root, though their psychical forms have none of these qualities.

The Chain-breaker

Their scars glow a faint silver-blue, chains shatter as the walk. They carry the scent of a familiar home when you unlock the door.

Signs

Their presence calms the caged animals, reminding them that freedom comes in all shapes

Metals the touch rust

They can not be caged, collared or begged– only followed

The Laughing Death

They move like a rumor– too fast, disjointed and told through mythos. A cackling laugh is the last thing the cruel hear– a chuckle like a crackling branch

Signs

A weapon who’s owner’s intent is violence– misfires, dulls, or even turns to fine sand

Crows laugh with them, mocking the predator

They leave one alive– just long enough to tell their story

Unification

Sentinels are not necessarily kind. But they are balanced. 

They are the knife that cuts the noose

They are the bite of teeth

*Disclaimer: Predator usually refers to Human Predators

Sorry if the writing is wonky, I don't like waiting for someone to beta-read my stuff usually (I do sometimes tho) :P

[themeadowsentinel]

“….He moves through the twilight meadows with a slow, aching grace—each step a testament to the weight of a body that will not bend as it once did. The Appalachian winds whisper through his fur, carrying with them the scent of damp earth and bruised apples, half-rotten and sweet. His spine, a crooked thing, protests every motion, yet still he walks. Still, he tends to his wards.

The creatures of the meadow know him—the lambs that press close to his warmth and the wolves that sing his name into the hollowed darkness. His face is a question never answered: neither wolf nor sheep, but something woven between, fangs holding promise. Something that knows the taste of fear, the salt of it, the way it shivers in one’s throat. He has known violence, has doled it out in quiet, necessary moments—but his teeth, though sharp, are gentle when they need to be.

Night is his domain. He stirs when the sun sinks below the ridges, when the shadows stretch long and the earth exhales and exalts the moon. His burrow is deep, a womb of roots and stone, where the weight of the world presses close, but warmly. By day, he sleeps—fitful, dreaming of running without pain, of a body unbroken. But always, he wakes. Always, he drags himself back into the light, back to the work that will not let him rest.

His steps leave deep prints—not just in the mud, but in the lives he touches. The lost children, the wandering souls—he guides them home with a nudge of his muzzle, a nip at their heels. He is neither wild nor tame, but something older, something that understands balance. The cull and the caress. The hunger and the mercy.

They call him by many names, spoken in hushed tones—a rumor, a prayer. A spirit bound to flesh, to thorns, to the ache of living.

And when the coyotes sing, he answers.

Not with sorrow.

Not with surrender.

But with a voice that knows the shape of longing.”

[themeadowsentinel]

🌿✨ THICKETBOUND WANDERER ✨🌿

“The Woods Don’t Forget. And Neither Do I…”

🌑 WHO HE IS

A scarred, limping guardian of Appalachian Meadows–both wolf in sheep’s clothing and sheep in wolf’s clothing, a paradox living between predator and prey. His paws ache and his spine crumbles, but his fangs stay sharp.

🌕 WHAT HE DOES

Guides the lost with a nudge of a muzzle

Culls the cruel with an unnerving gentleness, understanding the nuanced paths to becoming a monster

Offers rebirth in the deep dark of the forest’s hearts. Where the wicked becomes beetles, tree, or quiet flowers

🌒 WHY HE MATTERS

The wept for a protector the wield both mercy and teeth–so it created one

FAVORITE FOODS

Apples & Venison

WHAT HE SOUNDS LIKE 

A landslide sighing, the branch that taps your window at midnight, startling you from sleep. Your Grandmother final warning before the dark consumes you

WHAT HE LEAVES IN HIS WAKE

Pawprints that glow like moonlit moss (Drinking from for visions–or madness)

Fur tufts that root into flowers that glow like flame

An unshakable sense you’re being watched (You are)

MISC.

Bees nest in his pelt. Their honey tastes like forgotten memories 

His breath smells of wet peat and wild honey—Sweet but deep enough to drown

He hums lullabies to the lambs and howls with wolves

🌑🔥 FINAL MANIFESTATION: "THE CROWNED WITHERING" 🔥🌑

He stops pretending to be small, the earth itself holds her breathe

His antlers splinter into a living thicket

Moss erupts from his spine, his veins twist into vines

He levitates from the earth and the wind sings with the voice of every soul he’s guided

Flower wilt—then bloom in his footsteps

His shadow twists into an image with too many limbs, too many teeth

The guilty hear their sins screaming from the earth’s womb

[themeadowsentinel]

Its a soft, grey-lit day. I am laying in my nest, there is rain softly falling to the earth, the birds are softly chirping, squirrels and rabbits peek shyly from their hidey holes. The smell of rain hits my nose. Youtube is soft in the background, i hear the gentle clicks of my keyboard.

I am in pain, yes, but the earth, despite her scars, smells like herself. in this small dainty moment. She smells so welcoming. Wet earth. The smell that permeates my childhood. The smell that feels like a hug. The sound of the rain, an old friend welcoming me back.